


skyline pigeon

by darkcomedylateshow



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: 17th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Epistolary, M/M, with heavy anachronism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:07:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23678131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkcomedylateshow/pseuds/darkcomedylateshow
Summary: Dear Mr. WAMBSGANS,I have received your Letter and have read it many times over since its arrival, and must apologize for the poorness of my writing, and thank you for the kindness you have extended , but I will not tell a lye to you, and must confess that I worry of my stature here, and hope desperately to keep my composure among them all, and when I asked for your advice I did not hope to offend you, but hope instead we can reach the understanding which you alluded to, that we may endeavor to work together, and continue to keep our correspondences private, for the safety of ourselves and the Kingdom,your most humble servant to command to my death, Gregory Hirsch
Relationships: Greg Hirsch & Tom Wambsgans, Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

Tom tells himself he should feel very lucky. His life, outside of the constant mistrust, paranoia, and eavesdropping, was not actually difficult; the war was over, and if everything else went smoothly he would spend the rest of his life eating well, dressing well, and spending warm evenings outside, watching the spaniels tear across the grass. His diary would legitimize him after he was dead, and he would be remembered and respected, and nothing could take this away, unless someone happened to come along and ruin all of it. 

After all, his wife was the only one who seemed to care about what happened to him, and her rules were already very particular: he had to knock before entering her bedroom, abstain from silly nicknames or hand-wringing affection, and dine with her in courtly silence, broken only by talk of plans, like what they would do when the king died, or what they would do if the war was on again. At night he slept in his own quarters, well-attended but completely, painfully alone. 

Because of this, Tom believed some sort of preternatural curse had been put upon him, determined to keep him from everything he wanted. He loved vain things, but could rarely visit the town, and the food from the servants had grown repetitive and bland. His marriage, which his entire life had led up to, was a marriage of convenience; his wife, who he had spent his entire life preparing himself for, had a lover who had no claim to nobility but seemed so much like a better, cleverer version of Tom that it made perfect sense. 

It was no way for any man to live, and yet he would continue the routine without much thought: watching the dogs in the yard, knocking on his wife’s door, pacing the grounds, feeling doomed to fail. 

Late into a dim, early spring afternoon, he finds himself in a silk-backed chair, sitting on invitation but feeling very much unwelcome, as Siobhan and her brother pace and drink eau-de-vie and talk about the king. They’ve been in the summer palace since last summer, almost a year ago, nearly all of them together, sequestered from the pox and threats of violence in the town.

“Besides, he’s spurned Ken, and it just so happens that in a few weeks Ken will crawl back for another lashing, and then he’ll fuck off again, the way it always is. And when dear old Dad finally croaks—” 

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” says Siobhan, but the way her face lights up at the mention of it is undeniable.

“—when Dad finally croaks, or retires, or goes completely mad,” Roman says, “we will have, in his recent memory, been his most beloved children.” 

“I’m not sure about that.” 

“His most _steadfast_ children.”

“What about Connor? Connor’s pretty steadfast.” 

“Connor doesn’t count,” says Roman. He glances over to Tom, and laughs. “Look at Tom. He knows we’re fucking rats. Tom, weigh in — are we not steadfast?” 

“I’d swear on it,” Tom says, a little too eagerly for either of their tastes.

“Enough already,” Shiv says, “we can’t just keep talking about this, when it has _no_ basis in reality right now—” 

There’s a knock. “Forgive me,” says a voice through a door — it’s the lady Kellman, widow to the Earl of Rochester, another hanger-on in Logan’s deteriorating court. 

“Come in,” Roman says. She looks harried. To be fair, she always looks harried about something. “What is it?”

“Your second cousin has arrived,” she says, “and Logan requests that we all greet him.” 

“No, you can’t force me to, you can’t,” groans Roman. “There’s no rule anywhere that we have to entertain Greg the Egg.” 

“Come on, let’s be polite for once,” Shiv says, choosing to be annoyed with him, even though they’ve all been dreading this for ages. She gives Tom a commiserative look. 

“I could use the fresh air,” says Tom, to which no one says anything. 

They take the sedan-chairs to avoid the mud; the chairmen haul them down the hill to the edge of the estate where it drops off into moorland, nothing but stretches of dead grass for miles. They were supposed to meet there to enjoy the last of the sun, which grew longer every day, but this is more of a courtesy for the king, who is always ailing but never quite ill, and always asking to see his children while claiming to hate them. 

The second cousin is a recently appointed Earl of Cornwall, clearly a vanity title foisted upon him by Ewan. Very recently appointed, too. He is tall and skittish, and his clothes are like a peasant’s, untailored and worn. Tom watches from a few yards away as the new Earl is passed around in short, uncomfortable conversations with the king and his remaining children, lots of platitudes and vigorous head-nodding from Greg, lots of uninterested stares from them all. The chairmen stand around in eerily perfect form, both watching them and watching nothing at all. Tom wanders down to the edge, marked by a few stones, and puts his hands in his coat to stand in the cold sun. 

Finally, the new Earl, with no one else left willing to talk to him, approaches Tom. _That eager, nervous face makes me ill_ , he thinks — an excellent line for his diary. 

“You’re Cousin Greg?” Tom asks, even though he knows the answer. 

Greg's mouth opens, but he hesitates; Tom can tell he’s unsure how to address him. He raises his brows at him, half-goading, until Greg finally speaks: “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.” 

“No, but I know everything about you,” says Tom, smiling. 

This terrifies Greg, but perhaps he means he knows everything about the type of man he is, that he sees through the very faulty veneer. Tom decides he seems simple, unused to conversations of this pace, and decides to venture further: “Now tell me, Greg, what do you know about _me_ , or this fucking viper-pit they call a kingdom?” 

“Very little, m’lord,” says Greg, eyes fixed downward, “but I hope to learn soon, and to defer to your guidance, if it pleases m’lord.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” says Tom. As he says this, a dog runs up to Tom and jumps at his legs; Tom knees him away, very gently. “Don’t stoop for people unless they make you; there’s your advice. Now off you go.” 

“Wait,” Greg says, “I didn’t mean to overstep, I’m only—” 

“Off you go,” Tom says, again. But as he says it he gets a closer look at the disappointed fall of Greg’s face, a calculating glint in his eye, and sees something so incomplete and startling that he stops, briefly. It’s then that Greg excuses himself and turns around, and he watches him disappear up the hill and towards the castle until he is a white-shirted speck — tall and unpleasant, impossible to miss. 

Tom turns, and sees the king standing alone in the sun. He almost approaches him, but realizes he has nothing to say.

* * *

“Can we talk? Actually talk?” Roman is lingering by the edge of the grounds, leaning on a low stone wall. “Without Tom as a mediator, please.” 

“Tom’s not a mediator,” Shiv says, looking down the hill to see Tom, a few paces away from her father, both of them pretending to watch the geese. “There’s just no getting rid of him.” 

“Which made him an excellent choice for a husband.” Roman grins at her, almost sweetly. “I’m sure you can keep him at a distance when you need to.” 

“So what’s on your mind?”

“It’s Ken,” he says. “The messenger just came — he’s coming back. I was right; tell me I was right.” 

“No one accused you of being wrong.” Shiv is about to ask how soon, and why, and with who; but then there’s Greg, coming up the hill, looking a little gooselike himself. He has mud on his shoes, and is winded from the walk.

“There he is! The Earl of _what_ now?” Roman says, and Greg starts to answer, but then Roman puts an arm around him roughly and grizzles the back of his head with his knuckles, the way a brother probably would. “You got fucking tall, didn’t you?” 

“Thanks,” says Greg, and then goes. Roman sits up on the ledge, watching him head back into the house. 

He gives Shiv a look. “At least he won’t be stealing away any maidens.” 

She feels like pelting him on the arm, as if they were little kids again, but chooses again to sit with him, talking, watching their father at the bottom of the hill, until it grows dark and they go their separate ways.

* * *

Greg is used to being treated this way, but still it confounds him. He is sitting on the edge of the bed in his new room, staring in the full-length mirror. He feels confused, seeing such a strange and ugly shape in such an opulent room; and can’t help but think what a tight, dark, tiny-windowed room it is, hidden away in such a vast and light-filled house. He is trying to remind himself that this is his place, and he has as much a right to it as anyone, and that should make him very lucky, when a boy knocks on the door with a letter. 

It has a unique seal, and is neatly folded, written in a tight, careful hand: 

_To GREGORY, the Earl of Cornwall_ — 

_See that this letter is burned for your safety after reading; if our correspondence is discovered, your life would be placed unsafely in your own hands, but moreover would be a matter of great compromise to the Princess Royal and myself._

Greg looks up and checks to see if the door is locked. He’s been here a day — hours! — and already something dangerous has fallen into his lap. He lights a fresh candle, sits down with a cup of wine, and begins to read, slowly. Every few lines he has to stop, and stare off, and clench his jaw and hate it all more and more — this is Greg’s birthright, and yet this stranger knows more about everything in this world than he does. And he knows everything about _him_ , after all: _I knew the rumors of your displacement here, and of your ill upbringing, but did not believe them until I came to look upon you._

But then the letter moves, without much consideration, to the subject of Tom's brothers in law: _the Prince of Wales is a notorious Carouser, with several bastards running through the town, one can only assume; his younger brother equally foul-minded, though rumored to be impotent or merely incompetent; it is only my Lady Siobhan that holds the soundest judgment to carry on her bloodline._

Which is strange, because Greg knows they have no children, and he’s gathered from his mother and grandfather that Wambsgans is something of a fop, someone who signed himself over to the family for the sake of power and prowess — good reasons, Greg had thought, but terrible reasoning — and that he was the laughingstock of the brothers, mostly at Shiv’s expense, but mostly with Shiv and Logan and Tom all there in the same room. 

_For reasons unfathomable to myself,_ Tom goes on, _the King seems determined to torture each of them to the last to prove their love, although each has acted in ill will against him;_ _his veracity to choose an heir is in question among even his staunchest advisors. To tell further would put you at more risk than I see fit_. 

Greg can’t help but laugh at this, a little; Tom’s clearly pleased with himself, eager to clue him in on some vast, vague conspiracy, yet he feels compelled to remind him he’s not so stupid he’ll tell him everything, at least not right now. _You will hear much about threats of violence against our family, and see very little prevention of it in turn; they could fashion mass-graves in the park for the nobility, have us summarily executed, and the_ Spectator _and Gossip-Mongers would remain convinced ‘twere a Hoax; facing the hatred of the people is simply a burden we must undertake._

_In spite of the punishing nature of this World, there are strange gaps and avenues where you may still find pleasure, and when the Town is no longer dreary and riddled with disease, I would like very much to accompany you to the theatre, so that we may continue your Education._

_with curiosity,_

_your most Humble Servant_

_Thomas Wambsgans, Duke of Albany_

Greg spends several hours trying to understand it all. The remark about the executions in the park confuses him especially, although it’s easy to imagine himself standing in line and waiting for the axe to descend. Mostly he doesn’t understand why Tom would tell him all of this — is he bored? Does he need someone to confide in after all this ritual humiliation? Or is he looking for someone else to humiliate? 

He finds the boy loitering in the hall and asks him for materials for writing a letter; he comes back with fresh ink and parchment, a pen-knife, a fine quill, and Greg labors until early morning over a reply. He keeps Tom’s letter next to him, and reads it through a few more times, and glances over at the fireplace every few minutes; but by the time he’s done the fire is down to embers, so he folds the letter and hides it away in the writing-box for safekeeping.

Tom paces around his room for hours thinking about the letter. He hopes he understands the tone of the most-humble-servant thing; not entirely sarcastic, but not entirely sincere, which is so damn hard to convey in a letter to begin with. 

What frightens him is that he is not sure why he sat down and wrote it in the first place. Rebuffing Greg wasn’t as satisfying as he hoped it would be, and leading him on would be worse — he is tired of playing the same role of the enabler who leads the witless into believing he is well-liked. There are lots of men coming and going through this house. He’s watched enough, himself included, endure the same cruelty at the hands of Roman and Kendall. He’s watched it happen to himself — he sees the private looks they all share with each other, the way the air sits in the room whenever Tom says a word. 

He writes one line in his diary about ‘Cousin’ Greg’s arrival, and Logan’s gout appearing to diminish, and then puts out the light and sleeps. By morning there is a letter under his door, which Tom cuts open impatiently and pores over in bed: 

_Dear Mr. WAMBSGANS,_

_I have received your Letter and have read it many times over since its arrival, and must apologize for the poorness of my writing, and thank you for the kindness you have extended_ , _but I will not tell a lye to you, and must confess that I worry of my stature here, and hope desperately to keep my composure among them all, and when I asked for your advice I did not hope to offend you, but hope instead we can reach the understanding which you alluded to, that we may endeavor to work together, and continue to keep our correspondences private, for the safety of ourselves and the Kingdom,_

_your most humble servant to command to my death, Gregory Hirsch_

It is the finest letter he has ever received, and Tom has boxes full of them, carefully-composed promises and rejections and threats. None of them are as humble and unspoiled, and it makes him seethe, wondering how long this man has made it this far without knowing anything. He has to laugh when he gets to the end — Gregory Hirsch, his humble servant to command! Pretty and guileless, and easily disposed of, an excellent political pawn. 

It almost crushes him to part with it, but as he leaves for breakfast, he throws it on the fire and goes to begin the day.


	2. Chapter 2

That morning it is so humid that the windows and mirrors fog over, a sign of impending rain. After getting dressed, Tom flags down an attendant in the hall. 

“That’s Kendall’s carriage out front,” he says, sounding only mildly panicked. 

“Yes, sir,” says the boy. “He arrived late last night.” 

“Is Siobhan with him?” Tom asks. 

“I don’t know, sir,” he says. 

”Did you see anyone with him?” 

The boy freezes. He’s some ex-gentleman of the chamber’s horrible nephew, but he’s terrified of Tom, which is good for a laugh on occasion. “Only miss Jess, sir, no one else.”

“What about in the other carriage?”

“I don’t know, sir—” 

“Never mind.” Tom waves the boy off. Through the windows of the great hall, he can see Stewy Hosseini standing in the garden, dumping out his pipe ashes, and Kendall further off, walking the grounds with the king. 

* * *

“He looks awful,” Roman says over breakfast. “Do you think it’s syphilis?” 

“You’re hilarious,” says Shiv, pushing away her plate. The steward comes by with a china pot of tea, the latest imported fad the Queen Consort insists on having with every meal. Their brother is avoiding them. Everyone is avoiding them — even the servants squeeze themselves into the corner of the room, trying to go unseen.

“You’re just upset because you’re not his dearest darling Princess anymore, and haven’t been for a long time,” Roman says. 

Shiv makes a face of total disbelief at him. “Is that  _ really _ what you think?”

But she is very much used to this feeling: moving always one step too slow, dooming herself to fall out of stride, perpetually lagging behind her older brothers. 

“We’ve always been a contingency,” Roman goes on, “but Ken is irreplaceable _. _ ”

“This is why people think you’re stupid, Roman,” she says, getting up. “You expect too much, and then you’re disappointed when you get nothing.” 

Which is something she’s wanted to say for years, but it feels hollow on impact. Everyone expects too much, and everyone gets nothing, she thinks. Tale as old as time. 

“I don’t think that,” Roman shouts after her. “I never said that. Who told you that?” 

But she’s already gone. He pulls his mouth to one side and looks down into the cup of tea. Hot bitter water, as far as he’s concerned. 

* * *

Greg finds out that he is allowed to be nearly anywhere he likes, as long as he’s out of the way. There is an abundance of sitting-rooms and reading rooms and tea rooms unoccupied by the family, unclaimed by the nervous-looking courtiers that were always walking in and out of the King’s chambers. He realizes that he is in love with the idea of belonging to this place, the idea that one day he will be able to sit around freely without worry of judgment, that some nonexistent incognito will be lifted and he will get everything he is entitled to. 

The windows are cracked just enough to where he can hear the sound of wind, and birds, and a far-off hammer, and two people talking, very close. 

“...you should still stay tonight, everyone wants to see you.”

This is Kendall — he hasn’t heard Kendall’s voice since they were thirteen, but it’s more or less the same, just even more ragged and bored. He can see them both from the window now, walking close together. Kendall’s shoulders are hunched forward, conspiratorial. 

“Tell me why you’re doing this.” That’s Kendall’s old school friend — Greg can’t remember his name, but the lampoon writers always mention him. “It’s not because of your father. Tell me the real reason why.”

“Stewy — I think — sometimes, the only way to move on is to burn your bridges and start over.” As Kendall is saying this, Stewy looks around, incredulous, and seems to notice Greg, who panics and lowers himself beneath the windowsill, listening while curled in an awkward ball. 

“Is that it?” he hears him say. “Fitting. Very fitting. That’s the problem with people like you, Ken, is that you burn bridges over and over, and there’s less reason behind it every time.” 

“Stewy—”

“I’ve been here long enough.” 

Greg peers out the window. He can see the crown prince standing alone, his expression blank. His cape looks like it wants to billow in the wind, but the velvet is too stiff. 

There was something else going on between the two of them, something he didn’t catch, but it’s probably his imagination. After Kendall disappears from view, he rushes upstairs and commits the conversation to paper before he forgets. As he writes, the rain starts to move in.

* * *

Tom is smiling when he finishes reading the letter, smiling and gripping the edge of the table in total confusion. He balls up the paper and throws it onto the fire. In a brief flash of insight, he realizes this is all a dangerous waste of time. 

Yet he can’t help but write back. It’s all just too rich:  _ Gregory — did you truly happen upon this conversation, or are you some kind of tutored Spy? No, because Spies are clever, and know how to linger in a room without notice. You are unavoidable to the eye and very, very lucky. You sly dog! I hate you.  _

_ Provided that what you have told me is true, it surprises me that Kendall has deluded himself so. Antagonized as he is here, the Town adores Kendall. The people want a People’s King, and more relevantly, a fashionable king; there are many popular reports of Kendall the war hero, rowing boats through cannon-fire to deliver messages, laying down his life for his property—and of Kendall the libertine prince, devotee of the arts, Patron-Saint to all prostitutes, etc.; both are fabricated or greatly exaggerated, part of the publick campaign for his favor. But he does not attempt to prove his love to Logan the same as the others, and will always be at arms-length because of it. Logan, his royal majesty of Bridge-Burning, shall always have the means to rebuild, and so he invites and banishes pell-mell, choosing new enemies for each day — it will soon be you, as it has been me.  _

_ Why, Gregory, am I telling you all this? I could ask you the same. I have no reason to repeat what you have told me, but it would reflect badly upon you if I did. I understand there is very little to do here but cast our judgments on other people; but I have been good, and practiced restraint, until now. You are lucky to have foisted your sins upon me and not some other unwilling soul.  _

When Greg reads the letter through, he has to turn the paper over and walk around to get it out of his system, grinning stupidly. “What are you doing?” he asks the idiotic face in the mirror. Why are you so eager to destroy yourself? He reads the letter again, then hides it away. It’s strange to imagine his cousin Kendall being liked by ordinary people, and even stranger to imagine Kendall ever estranged from this place, much less wandering in exile. No one is as single-faced as they seem, or as calculated as they act. 

And trust only in me, Tom seems to be saying. You can only trust me.

* * *

“Greg?” 

Everyone was right; Kendall looks awful up close. It’s a strange affliction that strikes the Roys—that deadened, somewhat elastic look in the face. But the longer Greg watches, he begins to suspect he’s been crying, or drunk for several days, or both. 

“Cousin Ken,” Greg remembers to say. 

“It’s been a long time.” Kendall actually embraces him, a gesture neither of them had ever shared before or knew what to do with. 

They’re in his bedchamber, which is just another political chamber for the King and his children, for negotiations, alliances, secret meetings; the room is freshly unpacked, but already littered with paper and bottles. Ken gives him a long, discerning look. His expression is murky, but Greg sees the wheel turning in his head. Why did he ask for him? He must have seen him eavesdropping.

“Are you still sick?” he says. “My dad said you were sick for a long time.”

“Near death,” Greg says, “but I fought it off, and I’ve recovered, except I feel a weakness, every now and then.” 

“I have a tonic if you want,” says Kendall, getting up and fetching a green bottle from the desk. 

“I’m all right—” 

He’s already gotten out two small glasses and started pouring. “It’s what they give to my father,” Kendall says. “Settles the humours.”

“Um — I’ll accept. Thank you.” It’s wormwood laced in some kind of port wine, the kind that sets your chest on fire. Greg wonders if humours can be settled to begin with, if it’s really his body compelling him or everyone else. He feels the blood in his veins, rushing between his ears, but very little else. 

Kendall still seems on edge, but more talkative with a drink in him. “So my dad told me Ewan said you — had some boy thrown out for something he didn’t do.”

“I can explain,” Greg starts to say. 

“So what happened?”

“I—” Greg tries to come up with a lie, but accidentally tells him the truth: “It was a white lie, but they were weary of me already by then, I think.”

“Weary of you?”

“I’m the only son,” he goes on, the words just falling out of him now. “They wanted to send me to France, but I wanted to come here, because I was supposed to, because I knew I was supposed to be here. But they didn’t want me. And they sent me away. You understand that, don’t you? I know you do; I know.” 

Kendall says nothing. 

“Sorry,” he says, standing up. “Sorry. I won’t bother you any longer.”

“Come and go as you please, Greg,” says Kendall. “No one cares.”

“Good. Good to know.”

* * *

It seemed like when they were children, they lived in frugality. Now she seemed to go from gown to gown, banquet to banquet. New things showed up every day — bitter tea; unripe pineapple; French eau-de-vie that got you wickedly, wickedly drunk, with an even worse hangover, but it tasted so sweet at the time it was easy to forget. When her brothers came of age they were educated abroad, while she stayed behind, learning what she was allowed to learn: music and French and Italian and, most importantly, how to carefully groom herself into her father’s advisor. She learned to be sensible, but not too obsequious, not someone who asks for too much. She was practical, but too frank, not beguiling the way other queens or her mother had been, and because of this she was perpetually cast in the role of comely princess, unquestionably clever but too clever for anyone’s comfort. 

This was her understanding, at least, of why Ken was still her father’s favorite. It was relieving, in a way, to know that it would always be this way, and the arrival of her brother marked what had always been inevitable. He would collect on her birthright, and she would return to that strange stasis, playing that same character.

From the Duke of Albany's personal diary: 15 _ April - From London, an order of a new silk suit and a Periwig, in the latest fashion, though they are still frowned upon by Logan and the court; it went unworn at dinner and sits on the desk as I write. An uneventful meal to celebrate Kendall’s return, and after eating well, retired early.  _

The meal goes on for hours, course after course, and all Greg does is sit and watch. Stewy Hosseini obviously does not want to be here, but the storm is torrential; the sound of the rain battering the roof is bouncing off the high ceilings, forcing everyone to shout. Kendall is talking to his father; Shiv is ignoring Marcia; Roman is already very drunk. The only one who seems remotely normal is Connor, seated near the end with some new noble girl he’s been courting, and Kellman, who is watching everyone, too. 

They all toast to good health and fortune, and Roman remarks that it’s been a long time since all of them were together, Stewy included; perhaps not since Tom and Shiv’s wedding.

“It was the party before the wedding,” Tom says. 

“Oh,” says Roman, “ _ that  _ party.” 

Greg’s starting to believe maybe he  _ is  _ some kind of tutored spy, because the way that corner of the table grows tense is palpable; then they quickly move on, reminiscing about the wedding, and he is left trying to put the pieces together. He thinks about Tom’s letters, how strange and desperate he seems under the refinement and charisma. 

Much later Greg will write to him:  _ You told me yourself how you had been good and I had made you Wicked, but you were the one who proffered luxuries and trust in exchange for my servitude, and I cannot forget how it began that way, those first few days when I did not know who you really were or what you wanted and could trust no one. _

After dinner is over, and Logan retires, the men of the family break off into a private room, unbuttoning waistcoats and lighting up pipes. Greg’s not sure if he’s ever drank this much in his life, but he feels fine, strangely fortified, like someone else is controlling his legs. He excuses himself to wander through the place freely, smoking a pipe to stay upright, admiring the majesty of it all. He’s slumped against a wall, almost asleep, when he hears someone coming and jolts to his feet. 

“Oh,” Roman says, “it’s you.” 

“I’m sorry—” 

“Actually, Greg, I could use your help with something.” 

“Whatever you say,” Greg says, “your wish is my—” 

“Let’s just go,” Roman says, and leads him to a room where there are these fencing foils mounted to the wall, expensive-looking steel melted in intricate patterns. “Can you reach those?” 

“Yeah, sure,” he says, carefully prying them off the racks. One slips out of his hand and clatters to the ground, and he’s about to apologize, but Roman is already out the door with it in his hands. “Wait,” Greg says, as he follows him, “wait, what are you—” 

They burst into a parlor full of stale, smoky air. It’s a strange scene: Stewy and Kendall and Connor and Tom, who is sitting on the opposite couch, horrified that Greg is here. And then there’s Shiv, standing in the doorway, watching. 

“Sister!” Roman crows. "You’re just in time. I’m going to duel Kendall.” 

“I’m not complicit in this,” Greg says. 

"What are you going to duel him in, bad repartee?"

"Shut up, Stewy." Something clatters as Roman walks past the couch, gesturing for Greg. “Give me the swords. If I lose,” he says to Kendall, swaying on his feet, “you will go on with your grand plot of kissing Dad’s ass, and I will fuck off. And if I win, you will help us.” 

“I don’t want to do this,” Kendall says. “Can’t we just—” 

“You’re an idiot,” Roman says, waving his foil, and  _ crash  _ — there goes some of the china cabinet. He whacks Kendall on the arm, the metal whistling as it cuts through the air. 

“Roman, stop,” Ken is saying, but then he’s fending him off, and then hitting back in earnest. Shiv is laughing, aghast. Greg doesn’t look out of his element at all. He belongs to them perfectly. Tom feels himself smiling the whole time. 

“I yield,” Kendall finally says — “I yield.” 

“No you don’t,” says Roman. And then he laughs, and they both laugh, afraid of what they’ve just done; they are the last to realize the king has come into the room, watching them all, his face blank. 

“You are still children,” Logan says. 

Just like children, it shuts them all up. 

* * *

She takes Tom’s arm as they walk back. Her hands are shaking, and he can tell she is quietly radiating anger, the way only she can. 

“Say something,” he says. 

“There is a conspiracy,” she says, “to overthrow my father.” 

“Something I don’t know,” he says. 

“I haven’t been faithful,” she says.

“Something else.” 

“If even one of us makes a mistake,” Shiv says, “or if the wrong information falls into someone’s hands, we will all die.”

“That’s not true,” he says, even though it is. “I’m the only one who’ll die.”

“You better start accepting that,” she says, which he thinks is a joke. 

“Oh, I have,” he says, and then they both shut up. 

“Were you aware,” Shiv says, very calmly, “that taking the virginity of the Princess Royal out of wedlock is an act of high treason, punishable by death?” 

“Even if they got married after?”

“Would you like to find out?” 

“Would you actually wish that on me?” Tom asks. “Or on yourself?”

She doesn’t answer. 

“Of course I  _ knew  _ that,” he says, “but we were too young to know any better, weren’t we?”

“Isn’t that exactly to the point, that we were too young?”

“Shiv,” Tom says, “Shiv, you are my  _ queen _ .” Even he cringes at that. “I would lay myself down for you without you asking. I would sacrifice anything for you.” 

“I don’t want that,” she says. She doesn’t even want to play the role of cruel, disinterested mistress anymore; she just looks bewildered and tired and sad. 

“What  _ do  _ you want?” he asks. “Because—”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Good night, Tom.” 

“Wait—” 

But her maidservant is waiting at the door, and just like that she’s gone. Tom runs his hands over his face and trudges out into the warm air. Greg is sitting on the stone ledge at the edge of the garden, swaying a little. Tom’s infuriated that he even has to think about him again, after all of this. 

“Do you have some kind of deathwish?” he asks him.

“I was sick,” Greg starts to say, “but I’m fine now—” 

“Did you hear us?” 

“What?”

“Did you  _ hear  _ us.” 

“No, I — I don’t know what you mean, sir—” 

“Sir? Sir? You’re not a squire. Talk like a man.”

“I don’t know what you prefer to be called,” Greg says. 

“Tom. My name is Tom. And all this” — he gestures to the space between them — “this is nothing. You come and go when you are asked, but you are not some sworn vassal, and I cannot promise you anything. Protection, loyalty, none of it.”

“Right,” Greg says, after a befuddled pause. “That’s...that’s what I thought.”

“But I want to help you, really, I do.” 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Tom says, and sits up on the ledge some distance from him, staring down the hill. “I liked your letter,” he says. “A bit short, but to the point.” 

“Well, brevity is the soul of wit, I guess.” 

“I believe it’s ‘brevity is the  _ very  _ soul of wit.’” 

“I think it’s—” Greg glances away. “Never mind.”

“I want to help you,” he says, again. 

“Right,” Greg says, again. 

“There is a conspiracy,” Tom says, not quite measured enough, “to overthrow the king.” 

“I already knew that,” says Greg. “I — actually, can I ask you something else?” 

“What is it?” 

“Do you talk to everyone like this, or is it just me?” 

“What?” 

“All the subterfuge, and secrets, and burning the letters, and —” 

“Whatever it is you’re trying to sell to these people,” Tom says, “they don't believe it, and I don’t believe it. That is a skill that I can teach you, but we must be very careful.”

“Why?”

“Why do you want to be here, really? What do you hope to get out of this place? Because people like us get devoured here.” 

“I’m not some lost little lamb,” Greg says, which makes Tom laugh so loud it echoes down to the moors. 

He laughs so hard he has to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, and once he’s done collecting himself he says: “I believe you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> because i've lost control of my life.
> 
> [tumblr](http://emmabovvary.tumblr.com/) / [a whole playlist? already?](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4aQNXS5DtUP4ZWjrJPh7qd?si=mdfB7v9OR3GxYUsIJHG1mg)


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